


Half the Naked Distance

by KreweOfImp



Series: Prince of Darkness [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Casifer, Dark, Dean Whump, Did I mention angst, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Eileen/Sam is Very Briefly Referenced, Emotional Manipulation, First Time, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, I Hated Writing This, I feel dirty, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Same With Sam/Lucifer, Top Castiel, Top Lucifer, also angst, and not in the good way, this is not a nice fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/pseuds/KreweOfImp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is alone in the bunker when Lucifer shows up, determined to draw out Amara by hurting the one person she cares about, but can Cas manage to break free before Lucifer does irreparable damage to Dean?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half the Naked Distance

**Author's Note:**

> If you found your way here from the [Let It Snow](http://archiveofourown.org/series/386992) 'verse, you could be forgiven for expecting a funny, fluffy, sweet fic. 
> 
> This is not that. 
> 
> It is dark. It is not feel good. 
> 
> This is not a nice fic.
> 
> You have been warned.
> 
> More specific warnings can be found in the notes following the piece, along with a brief author's note and a note about the origin of the work's title.
> 
> Thanks and love to [phaelsafe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phaelsafe/pseuds/phaelsafe) for beta reading and getting me through the writing of this fic. She's the only reason I'm not currently catatonic.

It’s three weeks after poor Gunnar Lawless departed with his four-legged date, and the only real progress they’ve made is in practically doubling the size of the beer can pyramid on one of the library’s side tables.  Sure, they’ve worked a few cases, a couple standard salt-and-burn gigs in eastern Colorado, a small nest of vampires in Missouri, a cursed object (what kind of twisted asshole thought it was a good idea to curse a refrigerator magnet, for fuck’s sake?) just a couple towns over—but neither Sam nor Dean is fooling themselves that they are actually any closer to solving the big problems.  Lucifer is still in the wind, presumably with Cas as his (unwilling, Dean continues to insist) copilot.  No amount of research has given them any insight as to how they might unwillingly tear an archangel from his chosen vessel and even if they do figure out a way, what are the odds they can pull one of two angels from a meatsuit and leave the other one behind?  As Sam accurately (if infuriatingly) pointed out, the odds are good that if only one of the angels can hang on, it’ll be the dramatically more powerful one.  They’re more likely to end up inadvertently obliterating Cas than actually evicting Lucifer.  They’re still working the research angle, mostly because they don’t have any better ideas, but it’s half-hearted at best.

Ominously, there’s been no sign of Amara in close to a month.  Nothing at all since the blood-stained message etched in the flesh of Cas’s chest, back when it still belonged to Cas.  Neither of them is foolish enough to think that someone or something else has managed to take care of her, and after talking in circles for days, they are no closer to coming up with any reason that makes sense to explain her radio silence.  Honestly, they have jack shit, and they both know it.

So when Eileen calls (well, texts) Sam to ask him (not them, _him_ ) if he minds coming to help her with a suspected werewolf pack she’s tracking up in Nebraska, Dean gives Sam his blessing and doesn’t even bother offering to come along.  Sam looks so relieved that Dean might be offended if he hadn’t seen the two of them making googly eyes at each other during the assisted living job.  As it is, he tells Sam to call if they need backup with the pack and to use a condom.  Sam rolls his eyes at the latter, but Dean spots his ears turning red as he heads up the stairs to exit the bunker.  Grinning a little, Dean heads to the kitchen for a beer.  He’s glad Sammy’s found a woman who might just be able to keep up with him, both intellectually and in the badassery department.  Hell, since Eileen knows her way around weapons and a fight, she’s probably way more likely to survive Sam’s romantic interest than his past conquests.

Dean gives himself the afternoon off of research and instead avails himself of the privacy of an empty bunker to check out the recent updates on some of his favorite porn sites.  What?  It’s totally normal and healthy, as long as you don’t actually start thinking that real sex and porn have any more in common than your average romantic comedy does with actual relationships.

Dean mixes it up a little this time and heads for one of his guilty pleasures, a site whose tag-line says something about “no women allowed.”  He’s been watching gay porn for as long as he’s been watching porn, but it’s only in the last couple years that he’s started to half-admit to himself that, yeah, he might be just a little less than straight.  He loves women—adores their soft, sweet curves, the roundness of their hips and boobs and asses.  That much is not in question.  It’s just that sometimes, when his hand slips under the covers at night or down his torso to his groin while hot water streams down his body in the shower, he’s not thinking of soft curves and round hips.  Sometimes, he’s thinking of broad shoulders, firm chests, and narrow hips.  So, okay, he might be a little bi, and he guesses the fact that he’s even able to think it means that he’s made progress in accepting himself as he is or whatever. 

It’s not like he thinks anyone he actually cares about would have a problem with it.  Hell, Sam would probably get a rainbow flag tattooed on his forehead and throw a party if Dean ‘came out’ (God, it was weird just thinking that phrase) to him.  Bobby is dead, and wouldn’t have given two shits either way, as long as Dean didn’t start wearing glitter or singing show tunes.  Cas, the real Cas, as he’s been known to say, is utterly indifferent to sexual orientation—but he’s a more complicated prospect, if only because the broad shoulders, firm chest, and narrow hips that most often pop up in Dean’s half-ashamed but no-less-potent fantasies bear an unnerving resemblance to those of the angel.

Yeah, fine, he’s attracted to Cas, he can sort of halfway cringingly acknowledge it to himself.  And it makes sense.  The angel is a good-looking dude, with his strong jawline, full—if chapped—lips, ice blue eyes, and—well, the details don’t matter, suffice it to say he’s no slouch in the looks department.  Cas is also one of his best friends, one of (at last count) two people on the planet that Dean trusts implicitly and entirely.  The other is his brother, and Dean most definitely does not find _him_ attractive.  Honestly, if Cas was a woman, Dean would’ve hit that like a freight train years ago, and probably kept hitting it.  Maybe even put a ring on it by now—although _that,_ he really can’t think about without wanting to crawl into a crack in the floorboards and hide there forever.

To be fair, not all of that feeling is borne of shame.  Some of it has to do with the fact that said best friend, whether or not Dean has something he would never call a crush on him, is currently trapped in his own (kind of borrowed, but now his) body along with the Devil, and Dean doesn’t know how to save him or even, at the core, if Cas really wants to be saved at all.  If Dean thinks too hard about it, he starts to feel like he can’t breathe and has to go splash cold water on his face repeatedly, so he tries not to think about it at all.

Honestly, he tries not think about _Cas_ any more than strictly necessary these days.  It’s too raw.  He ends up wanting to claw his way out of his own skin, and it’s not like a whole lot of thinking has gotten him any closer to an actual solution.  Of course, it’s harder not to think of the angel while Dean watches a lean body topped with mussed dark hair, bent over an equally firm form crowned in dirty blonde.  The first man’s hips are working fast and hard as he buries his cock in the blonde, who is on hands and knees on what looks like cheap industrial carpeting.  The guy who’s getting fucked—the bottom, it’s called, not that Dean made it a point to find out once upon a time—actually has freckles, now that Dean looks.  It’s not that the dude isn’t good looking, he is, Dean’s attention has just been more intently focused on the messy dark hair, strong jawline, and taut abdomen of the guy who’s topping.  Something about the man, especially when he drops his head so that his facial features aren’t clearly visible, sets Dean’s heart to racing. 

Oh, fuck it, who is he kidding?  He’s the only one here, and even if he tries not to, he knows perfectly well what attracted him so powerfully to this particular video.  It’ll provide spank bank fodder for months to come, maybe longer, and Dean’s hand is actually halfway to his zipper—yeah, even right here in the library in the middle of the day—when he hears the footstep behind him.  He jerks in startled guilt, slamming the laptop closed, a sinking feeling in his stomach telling him that it’s too late, and Sam had to have seen what was on the screen.  Dean’s already opening his mouth to try to come up with some thin excuse like he clicked on the wrong video.  He just can’t get into this with Sam, not now, not when Cas is—

“Hey, there, champ.”

He wishes he could believe that it _is_ Cas behind him, but the voice is all wrong.  Instead of his somber gravel, it’s the creepily playful cheer that is so typical of Lucifer, and what makes it worse, so goddamn much worse, is that it’s coming from Cas’s vocal chords.

Dean freezes for half a second, because for fuck’s sake, he’s alone in the bunker and the nearest weapon is probably the machete by his bed, and how stupid was _that,_ considering that they already knew perfectly well that Lucifer both knew where the bunker was and could get in?  Not that it honestly matters, because Dean isn’t powerful enough to kill Lucifer and wouldn’t even if he somehow magically could.  Not with the smug son of a bitch camped out in Cas’s skin.

All of this parades through his head in a heartbeat and then he’s on his feet, chair knocked halfway across the room by the speed and force with which he rose.  He puts the table between himself and Lucifer before he lets himself really look at the guy.  It hurts, looking at the intimately familiar face and knowing that what’s looking back at him is all wrong.  Cas is in there somewhere, he knows this, Sam told him what happened when Lucifer was about to kill him, but the creature currently smiling sunnily at Dean is not him.  Lucifer lifts both hands, palms toward Dean, as if in a gesture of surrender.

“Easy, little fella, easy!  You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Dean.  Now, why could that be?”  He lifts one hand, tapping a single finger against his lower lip as though pondering the question, and Dean actually flips him off.  Lucifer throws his head back and roars with laughter, delighted by the gesture.  “So feisty!  I just love it.”  His nose wrinkles as though Dean is just the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, and Dean’s hands clench into fists, the impotent, pointless rage that floods through him making his vision actually go hazy for a moment.  Lucifer grins knowingly at him.  “I hated to interrupt you when you were so clearly…” he leans forward, eyes flashing with wicked delight, eyebrows wiggling in a way that reminds Dean powerfully that the archangel in front of him and Gabriel were brothers, “…busy.”

Oh.  Awesome.  That’s fabulous.  The Devil caught him watching gay porn starring actors that resembled himself and Cas.  Yeah, it’s official, God hates Dean Winchester, and the feeling is really fucking mutual at the moment.  Dean struggles to come up with something to say, some witty rejoinder, and when he fails entirely, opts to simply remain silent.

Lucifer is undaunted by his lack of verbal response to the needling.  The bastard is so fucking smugly self-impressed that he could probably monologue for hours with only a brick wall to play off of, honestly.  “Honestly, Deano,” Dean really hates that fucking nickname.  The only two people who’ve called him that were Cole and Meg, and neither of them is exactly on his top ten list—or was, in Meg’s case, “now that I think about it, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.  I mean, I already knew how sweet little Cassie felt about you.”  He taps his forehead and leans forward conspiratorially, “hard not to know all the little guy’s secrets when we’re spooned so close.  It explained a lot, why he’s always been so willing to sacrifice himself for you, so protective.  What I wouldn’t have called,” he trails a finger along the back of a chair as he starts to move slowly around the table.  Dean, who still hasn’t said a single word since the Devil showed up, starts to back away at exactly the same rate that Lucifer advances, “was that _you_ felt the same way!  Mr. Masculine himself!  I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that a little bit of that is…compensation.”

Dean is only just now actually realizing what Lucifer is implying about Cas and his feelings, and he feels a little bit like he’s been punched in the gut.  He can’t think about that now, can’t analyze the odds that the Devil is lying to disarm him or telling the truth for the exact same reason, can’t even begin to process the possibility that Cas’s feelings for him are more complex than friend and protector.  Lucifer, who is watching his face closely, laughs again at whatever he sees.  “Deano, as much as I would just love for us to sit down and have a fireside chat about this, maybe figure out what size crowbar it’ll take to pry you out of that closet you’ve stapled yourself in, I actually didn’t come for a social call.”

“You don’t say, asshole?”  Dean is at least moderately pleased to discover that he still has a voice and that it sounds as derisive as he intends it to.

“I know, it’s disappointing, but maybe next time I’ll stop by just for tea,” Lucifer pantomimes a sad face, and he is still coming around the table toward Dean, who continues to back away.  “Today, though, has a purpose.”

“Whatever you’re hoping to accomplish, it ain’t happening, so you might as well just flutter off,” Dean says with more bravado than he actually feels.  Lucifer unsurprisingly finds this hilarious, and as if Dean has said the magic word, he actually stops his pursuit, pulls out a chair, and drops into it, kicking his feet up on the edge of the long table.

“Well, Deano, while I didn’t come to gossip about your abortive love life, I _do_ think we should have a little chitchat.  Why don’t you sit down?”

Dean doesn’t even bother with more than a snort in response, and Lucifer shrugs, “Your call, kiddo, if you don’t wanna be comfortable.”  Dean just stares at him stonily, fighting the urge to cross his arms over his chest in a gesture that would be stonewalling, yeah, but also protective.  Problem with that is, he actually needs his hands and arms to be available to him at a moment’s notice, so he keeps them at his sides and lets his fingers clench and unclench restlessly into and out of fists.  Lucifer is undaunted by his lack of response, as usual.

“What I’m sure you and my ex-roomie,” that son of a bitch is talking about Sammy, casually referencing the millennia in which he tortured Sammy, and Dean would really very much like to set him on fire, “already know is that Auntie Darkness has gone off the grid altogether.  Just poof, like she never existed at all.  And that?  That’s not a good thing.  It means she’s busy.  Means she’s planning something.”  This is pretty much the same conclusion that Sam and Dean have come to over the course of at least five hundred exhaustive discussions, but Dean’s sure as hell not going to validate Lucifer with his agreement.  “Now, I’ve already tried just about everything I can think of to tempt her out of hiding, but she’s not playing ball.  And that’s when it occurred to me that the power was with me all the time, Dorothy!”  Dean doesn’t bother to correct the archangel’s misapprehensions about the Wizard of Oz with the information gleaned from the real Dorothy.  What he does is take an involuntary step back, because he’s pretty damn sure he knows exactly where this is going, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“See, there are only two things I know for sure she has strong feelings about.  The first one is Dad, and he?  Well, he’s still rocking the deadbeat status.  That avenue’s a wash.  But the other—the other just happens to conveniently be right in front of me as we speak!”  Lucifer leans forward, wrinkling his nose in delight, as if this is just the most serendipitous coincidence ever.  Then he leans back.  There’s something much more businesslike about his voice when he goes on, and it is absolutely terrifying.  “Amara sees you as hers, Deano.  You let her out.  You’re bonded.  If there’s one thing on this sad little planet she actually cares about, it’s you.  That means the straightest road to her goes directly through you.  Well,” he interrupts himself, chuckling good-naturedly, “maybe not the _straightest,_ given our recent discoveries, but you catch my drift.”

Yeah, this is going exactly where he thought it was, and Dean is fucked.  There’s a big part of him that wants to just turn tail and run, but he doesn’t give it control, and not only because it would be fruitless to make an escape attempt.  He is Dean fucking Winchester, and he is not a coward.  Instead he stares at the Devil and manages, somehow, a sneer of disdain.

“We both know where you’re going with this, so why don’t you get on with it?  Or are you so in love with the sound of your own voice that you have to take ten years to get around to a point?”

Lucifer actually gives him a round of applause, the grin of delight splitting his face.  “Oh, well done, kiddo.  Very brave.  I almost believe that fearless façade.”  He tilts his head and looks at Dean, _really_ looks at him, and then goes on.  “You’re right, though.  We both know where this is going.  If Amara can’t be drawn out any other way, I’m gonna have to resort to the obvious.  Threatening what matters to her, and that, of course, puts you squarely in my crosshairs.”

Suddenly, Lucifer is no longer kicked back in a chair with his feet on the table, he is standing directly in front of Dean, who does stumble backward a step this time, startled.  Even though Cas is a couple inches shorter than Dean is, Lucifer is managing to loom over him, even before his fingers twine in Dean’s shirt to hold him steady.  “We’ve been here before, Deano.  You remember what it was like.  Stull Cemetery.  You.  Me.  A whole mess of broken bones.  But this time, little brother ain’t here,” Lucifer taps two fingers of his free hand against his own—Cas’s—skull, “to stop me.”

Dean doesn’t know what to do.  He can’t run.  He can’t break free.  There’s no way out.  Nothing he says will move the Devil to mercy.  But it goes against his grain just to cringe and wait for it, so instead, he goes ahead and invites it.  Leaning back as far as he’s able, he hocks the most impressive wad of spit he can directly into Lucifer’s face.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Lucifer is chuckling, and this time the darkness, the cruelty is right on the surface.  “Ballsy, kiddo.  Stupid, but ballsy.”

Lucifer raises his free hand to wipe the spit off his face, then smears it on Dean’s shirt.  A second later Dean watches as the same hand curls into a fist and hauls back.  That moment feels like it lasts ten years.

Dean _does_ remember Stull Cemetery.  Vividly.  The sound of his bones crunching, the explosions of agony as he fought against his own body’s desire to give into oblivion so he could stay with Sammy.  This time, is there any point in fighting it?  Any point in not just giving in and letting darkness (not The Darkness, mind you) swallow him at the first chance?  He doesn’t have long to wonder internally before the fist falls and that first explosion of agony arrives.

It’s no less painful than he remembers.  The first hit snaps his cheekbone.  The second knocks out two teeth and loosens probably five others.  Really, it’s no surprise that Lucifer can hit like a concrete wall condensed into fist-size.  What’s truly cruel is that the archangel keeps talking.  He can’t even escape the obnoxious droning in violence.

“See, Deano, I know just where to hit—and just where to avoid—to keep you alive for, jeez, _days_ if I need to.  I don’t wanna rush this too much, we don’t know how long it’ll take Amara to tune into your pain and find her way here, after all.  We’ll just have to make sure she’s got a steady supply to latch onto, won’t we?”

Dean can only be grateful that Sammy is off with Eileen, and hopes that the hunt keeps him busy until it’s over, one way or the other.  Lucifer himself made it clear that he has no use for Sam anymore, and it’s a mercy that Sam isn’t here to be swatted down like a fly before Lucifer really goes to work on Dean.

And go to work he does.  Three ribs, one arm, and what Dean thinks might be a punctured lung later, he hangs in Lucifer’s arms, trying to force himself to breathe as steadily as possible through the red hot agony.  The arm cocks back for another go, and that’s when it happens.  The fist falters.  Dean sees it through a red haze across his vision that’s either blood or sheer pain, and can hardly bear to hope what it might mean.  Lucifer laughs a little breathlessly and shakes his head, murmuring, “Now, now, down, boy.  Nobody invited _you_ to join us.”  He is so clearly not speaking to Dean that this time, there’s no way to tamp down the hope that blossoms in his chest.  He manages somehow to speak through swollen lips, though he has to pause and spit out a mouthful of blood.

“Ca—Cas.  C’mon, man.  I know you’re—you’re there.  You can fight him.  Come back to me.”

Lucifer growls, then, hissing at Dean.  “Shut up.  Shut _up,”_ and it’s a good thing, it’s a _great_ thing, because why would he be so angry if he wasn’t on the verge of losing control?  Dean pushes onward.

“C’mon, buddy.  You gotta—you gotta fight.  I need you to fight. I need you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said the words.  The last time was in a crypt, in a situation that looked a hell of a lot like this one—only then, it _was_ Cas.  A Cas who’d been brainwashed and tortured, sure, but still Cas.  And last time, these words _worked._ Dean’s use of them again is deliberate. 

It’s not all strategy, of course.  They’re true.  He _does_ need Cas, has pretty much never needed him more than he does right now.  One of his eyes is swollen nearly shut, but he tries to put his feelings—all of them, not just the ones he openly admits to—in his gaze, despite the fact that looking at Lucifer that way makes him feel ill in ways the beating he’s taken cannot fully account for.  He tells himself he’s not looking at Lucifer, not really, he’s looking beyond him, to the angel who is fighting to break free, who is fighting to come back to Dean.  And there _is_ a fight taking place.  That much is crystal clear now, even through the haze of what has to be two or three concussions.  Can you even have more than one at the same time?  Whatever.   Cas’s—Lucifer’s—face is rippling, expression shifting bizarrely, unnaturally, as the two angels within vie for control.  The hand that has been wrapped around Dean’s unbroken arm, holding him more or less upright, suddenly drops him, and he hits his knees with a groan he can’t quite stifle.

He turns his face up, not wanting to miss what’s happening, the strange battle for dominance.  Instinct tells him that he can help, can remind Cas why he’s fighting, so he goes ahead and speaks again, past bloody lips with a swollen tongue.  “Please, Cas.  Please.  Come back to me.”  It’s nothing he hasn’t said before, but he knows what to emphasize this time.  It’s the _for me_ that really matters.  It’s the fact that _he_ needs Cas.  If what Lucifer said was true—if Cas really does feel for Dean the same way that Dean does for him—maybe that will be enough.

For a second he thinks it’s all been in vain, sees the cruel twist of lips above him that is all Lucifer—and that’s when it happens.  A massive shudder goes through the body looming over Dean and suddenly it falls to its knees as though pushed there by some massive force.  A wordless growl escapes it and Dean barely dares to hope that he’s actually hearing what he thinks he’s hearing.  The angel—whoever he is—gasps in a shuddering breath and then there are hands, desperate, impossibly gentle hands cradling Dean’s face, and an agonized voice grates out one word in that familiar, beloved gravel.

_“Dean.”_

Dean wants to cry, but in a good way.  A burst of familiar heat goes through him, maybe a little hotter than usual this time, perhaps because his injuries were so bad.  Suddenly he is blinking through undamaged eyes, his teeth all back where they belong, ribs knitted back into place, lungs functioning normally.  He is healed, but the hands haven’t released his face, continue to cup his cheeks.  The thumbs— _Cas’s_ thumbs—run lightly across his cheekbones, stroking his face, and Dean has no desire to pull back, no desire to say something manly to cover the fact that they just had a moment.  Instead, he wants to stay in it, in this moment in which he and Cas kneel before each other, whole and entirely themselves.  This moment in which Lucifer has been beaten back by the same force that beat him back the last time he was pounding Dean to a pulp.

Love.

It is love that is holding Lucifer back, just as it was Sammy’s love for Dean that was able to force him back in Stull Cemetery all those years ago.  This love is different—there is nothing brotherly about it—but Dean knows with unshakeable certainty that it is no less strong.

Cas’s eyes are desperate as they rove over Dean’s face, taking in every inch of it, every expression.  The angel’s face is etched in terrible grief and guilt, and Dean wants nothing more than to wipe all that pain away, to make him understand that it’s okay, it’s all okay, because it wasn’t him and because, even more importantly, _he came back._ He came back to save Dean.

It seems like the most natural thing in the world, leaning forward to bridge the gap, sealing his lips against the chapped ones.  There’s a beat in which the mouth is motionless beneath Dean’s, stunned, and then Cas’s lips are moving as though he has been lost in the desert for years and Dean’s lips are water.  There is no skill, no grace to the kiss.  It is all clicking teeth and tangling tongues and noses smashing together, but for all that, Dean thinks it is maybe the best kiss of his life, and certainly the longest in coming.

Minutes or maybe centuries go by before Cas breaks the contact, propping his forehead against Dean’s.  They are both panting as if they’ve run a mile or twenty, but there is something additional to Cas’s, a pained sound that Dean doesn’t like, that makes him nervous.

“Cas…?” he asks, and the multitude of questions go unspoken but clearly communicated nonetheless.

“He…” Cas’s fingers are restlessly clenching and unclenching, much like Dean’s were not so long ago.  “He wants back out.  He’s fighting me hard.  He doesn’t like being caged, Dean.”

Dean pulls back so he can really look at Cas, and finds that the familiar blue eyes are anxious and...pleading?

“I know, it’s okay, you can do this.  You can hold him off, Cas, I know you can.”

Cas groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a second and opening them up again, “Dean, it hurts.  He hurts.  He’s clawing at me.  I can _feel_ him.”

Dean cannot stand it, cannot bear to see Cas in pain, is desperate to fix it, to help, so it feels like a gift from the divine when Cas opens his mouth again and asks for just that.

“Dean, help me.  Please, _help me._ Help me hold him back.”  Cas is curling forward, into himself, the way someone in great pain does, and Dean takes him by the shoulders and shifts forward, pulling him in so that he can wrap his arms around the angel.

“Jesus, Cas, of course.  I want to—tell me how.  Tell me what to do.”

Cas groans, and while there is pain in the sound, there’s something else, too, something Dean has heard before, but not from him.  He hardly believes he’s hearing right, and is ready to dismiss it before suddenly Cas’s hands, which had still been hanging limply by his sides, are scrabbling with Dean’s overshirt.  Dean is so startled that now he’s the one who freezes, and when he senses Dean stop moving, Cas draws back, suddenly, as if burned.

“Dean, I’m—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

Once he wraps his brain around it, it sort of starts making a weird kind of sense, actually.  Both times Cas has managed to fight Lucifer back, it was in moments of strong feeling for the people who matter most to him.  Protectiveness, sure, because Lucifer was going to kill Sam and torture Dean, but if there’s anything Dean has learned over the years, it’s that there isn’t such a big difference between one form of passion and another.  It’s a shorter trip from a passionate need to protect to more stereotypical kinds of passion than sense would suggest, and why wouldn’t this be a way to force back Lucifer?  Why wouldn’t the consummation of years of sexual tension, the forging of a physical bond—a bond between _bodies—_ be exactly the kind of thing that could best anchor Cas where he belongs?  Dean’s mind is getting away from him, making connection after connection, and in the meantime, Cas kneels before him, looking horrified with himself—and still in pain, still desperately fighting off Lucifer, alone.

And that just won’t do.

Dean bridges the gap between them again, and this time it’s he who takes Cas’s face between his hands.  The kiss is a little less frantic this time, but no less intense for all that.  Cas kisses him back for a long moment, as if he is incapable of doing anything else, then tears himself away with visible effort.

“No, Dean.  I can’t—I cannot make you do this.  It is not fair to ask this of you, to ask you to sacrifice this in order to help me fight him back,”

“How is it possible,” Dean demands, dropping his hands from Cas’s face to his shoulders and pushing the trench coat down his arms, “that an angel of the Lord can be so goddamn blind?  You really think you’re making me do anything?  You think this is a sacrifice?  Jesus, Cas, you think I haven’t been wanting this since the day you backed me against Bobby’s kitchen counter and told me to show you some respect?”  He seriously thinks about calling Cas an idjit, but breaking out Bobby even more than he already has would kind of ruin the mood, so he lets it lie.  Instead he gets the trench coat off and returns his hands to Cas’s face, that beloved face, which has begun to shine with a kind of desperate, hesitant hope, as if he scarcely dares to believe that he’s hearing what he thinks he is. 

“Dean—you mean, you—but… I—really?”

Some smart-ass part of Dean wants to laugh, because he’s reduced an angel to speechlessness, but he won’t do that to Cas.  Instead he leans forward and kisses him again, with a slow, deliberate thoroughness that answers Cas’s garbled question without the need for words.  This time, when Cas draws back, there is belief on his face, and Dean can actually _see_ the pain of battling for control lessening inside the angel.  Can _see_ it become easier.  _Yes.  This is going to work._

Cas’s hands are back on Dean’s overshirt, and this time Dean helps him.  Together, they wrestle it off, and it does take both of them.  By the time it is discarded on the floor, they’re both laughing at their clumsy desperation, but it doesn’t stop their fingers from fumbling just as hastily with the next layer of clothing, trading urgent kisses as they do.  Cas’s suit jacket is next, and Dean is scrabbling with the buttons on his button-down at the same time Cas tries to pull Dean’s undershirt over his head.  Cas wins the momentary battle for clothing-removal dominance, but the second Dean’s shirt hits the floor, his hands are back to work, and Cas’s shirt slides down his arms a few seconds later.  They pause, then, foreheads pressed together, trying to catch their breath, and Cas’s laughter fades away into uncertainty when he pulls back to look at Dean.  He sounds nervous, as if he is still half convinced that Dean is going to change his mind, but he speaks anyway.

“I won’t force—you don’t owe me this, Dean.  You don’t owe me anything.  We can find another way, some other way to fight him off.  I can’t—coerce you into this.  It—it would kill me if the first time we—if you felt like you had—“  He is struggling so hard, trying to find the words to say it.  Trying to figure out how to tell Dean that he doesn’t want Dean to do this out of a sense of duty, that it would break his heart if this turned out to be another manifestation of Dean’s same old fucked up savior complex (okay, fine, yeah, he has one of those).  Dean can’t keep watching him flay himself, so he breaks in.

“Stop.  Just—stop.  This isn’t about owing.  You’re not coercing me into anything.  When all is said and done, I might need to write Lucifer a thank you note—“ the comically startled expression on Cas’s face is priceless, and Dean sort of wishes he had a camera handy, “—because I might never have gotten up the guts to do this otherwise.  Might have spent forever watching you and wanting you and—“ loving you, he wants to say, but even with everything, even in the desperate intensity of the moment, those aren’t words that come easily to him.  He pushes onward, “—and being too much of a goddamn coward to do anything about it.”  His hands land with great purpose on Cas’s belt and he begins to unfasten it, slowly, deliberately, so there can be no doubt that he means exactly what he is saying.

Cas groans again, a mingling of pleasure and need, and when his lips collide with Dean’s again, the last hint of hesitance is gone.  Dean manages to get Cas’s belt undone before Cas finishes with his, and when he unzips the angel’s pants and plunges his hand underneath his waistband and into his boxers, the sound he wrings from Cas is an honest-to-God _whimper._ Dean has never heard anything sexier, never felt anything sexier than the hot, hard flesh his fist closes around.

Somehow, Cas still manages to get Dean’s belt undone, and before Dean knows it, his jeans and boxers are sagging around his lower thighs and his cock has sprung free, swollen with blood and harder than it has maybe ever been.  Cas’s hand closes around it and jacks it once or twice, slow and deliberate.  It’s _so_ good but it’s not quite enough, and Dean shuffles closer on his knees, releasing Cas’s cock only long enough that he can pull his own cock into the mix, fisting them both and jacking them together a couple times.  Both of them release uncontrollable noises—Cas’s a low moan and Dean’s a higher, needier sound that is practically a whimper.  He realizes now that he hadn’t allowed himself to even _begin_ to think about how badly he wanted this before this, before it was a done deal.  He wants it more than he has ever wanted anything in his life, wants to feel Cas moving inside him, filling him.  Wants to know that the force of what is between them, the clutching heat of his own body, gives Cas the strength to fight the Devil and win.  As he puts voice to this need, he finds that he is as miraculously and entirely without shame as he has been since the moment his lips smashed into the angel’s.

“Y-yes, Cas, need you.  Need to feel you inside me.”

The words don’t just feel right in his mouth, they even sound right, and the continued lack of shame convinces Dean further that this is meant to be.

Cas kisses him, hard, with a possessiveness that is new, and Dean finds that he likes it.  His hand continues to work both of their cocks together, and it is amazing, but the thought of Cas driving into him, buried inside him, is even more amazing.  When the angel draws back, his voice sounds nearly as wrecked as Dean feels.

“I can’t—I don’t know how gentle I can be.  I don’t—want to hurt you.”

Now is probably not the moment to tell the angel that Dean has been known to supplement his masturbation in such a way that his ass is probably not quite as virgin-tight as it might otherwise be.  Anyway, the fact that he’s finger-fucked himself on a regular basis for years now will only make so much difference.  Dean can feel perfectly well that the cock his hand is wrapped around is a hell of a lot bigger than his own fingers, and unless they go awful slow, Cas’s concern is probably a valid one.  It’s going to hurt.  Dean is not put off by the thought, and his voice is no less wracked with need when he gasps out a response.

“It’s okay.  Really.  I don’t—I don’t mind.  I want this.  Want you.”  It’s also not the time to tell Cas that a little pain has never been a deal-breaker for Dean, that sometimes it makes the pleasure a whole lot better, but Cas must hear it in his words or see it in his face, because there’s dawning realization in his eyes.  He looks like a kid who’s just been given a puppy on Christmas morning, as though for the first time he really believes he’s gonna get to do this, that Dean is going to give him this.  The dual rushes of sensual heat and affectionate warmth that flood Dean somehow coexist quite comfortably, but the affection is quickly subsumed by a jolt of desire when Cas’s hands slide around to palm Dean’s ass cheeks, fingertips of one hand slipping into the crack and just barely grazing the tight ring of muscle. 

Cas is done asking for permission, done double-checking that he has consent, that Dean understands what he’s getting into.  He has strained the limits of his patience, and Dean has never been so grateful for anything in his life, because he is also done waiting.  When the angel’s voice comes next, the single-word question is clipped with urgency.

“Lubricant?”

“My room,” he tells Cas, right on the heels of the question, releasing their cocks, and then they’re getting to their feet, both of them staggering as they try to step out of their pants without letting go of one another.  They end up laughing again, pinballing off the table and each other before both pairs of pants are in heaps on the ground.  Cas catches his hand and yanks him down the hall.  Dean goes readily, and when Cas trips over his own feet in his eagerness, Dean takes the lead.  Now he’s the one pulling Cas behind him and the angel comes along for the ride.  They make it to Dean’s room in what must be record time, and he’s across the room and fumbling in his bedside table in about three seconds flat.  For a second he thinks the lube isn’t there and he’s already desperately trying to figure out what would make a decent substitute for the stuff—lotion? Conditioner? Butter?  He’ll _make_ something work—when his fingers close around the small bottle and he huffs out a relieved breath.  No sooner has he pulled it out of the cabinet than an arm snakes around him from behind and seizes it.  The arm’s mate wraps around Dean’s waist and walks him backward a few steps, then turns him toward the bed.  The arm untwines from around him and a hand settles on the small of his back, guiding him forward.  Dean goes to his knees on the memory foam and accepts the hand’s urging, bending forward and propping himself on his elbows, so his ass is pressed outward and upward in invitation.

Another groan leaks out of Cas, and Dean knows that he must present one hell of a sight, crouched on all fours, head hanging down between his shoulders, back heaving with his gasping breaths.  The sound of the bottle clicking open echoes with what feels like disproportionate volume through the room, and a second later one of Cas’s hands settles on Dean’s ass, steadying him.

He knows it’s coming but he still jerks a little when a slick finger traces the line of his ass crack before nudging just past the ring of muscle, only up to the first knuckle.  The sensation is not unfamiliar—Dean’s done this to himself God only knows how many times—and it’s not nearly enough.  The soft, needy whine that escapes him is so wanton he feels himself flushing, but he’s not ashamed, not really. The angel makes a quiet sound that Dean can’t identify and he starts to turn his head to get a look at Cas’s face, but that’s when the fingertip that is lodged inside of him suddenly becomes an entire finger, buried to the root, and Dean’s forehead drops to the bedspread. 

His ass clenches and then relaxes around the intruder, and Cas withdraws it, earning a sound of outrage from Dean that makes the angel laugh.  It’s not a mean laugh, not taunting, and any irritation it might’ve caused in Dean is obliterated by the fact that in the next second the finger is back, and it’s been joined by a second one.  They bury themselves in Dean and then draw back, only to begin pumping in and out, pausing to twist and scissor every thrust or two.  Dean’s hips have started moving, his ass pressing back hungrily into the fingers, until Cas’s free hand slips to his hip and his fingers dig in a little bit in warning.  Dean gets the message and tries to stay still, but it’s impossible when the two fingers are replaced by three.  There’s a little bit of a burn now, but he doesn’t care, it’s still not enough.

“Cas, please,” he pants, “now, please, now, need you.”

Dean hears the breath rush out of Cas as though he has been punched, and knows that the angel was only just barely holding on in order to try to prep Dean well.  His own needy words have obliterated Cas's hard-won self-control, and his fingers are suddenly gone, leaving Dean feeling empty and desperate.  That hand, fingers still slick, closes around Dean’s other hip.  Cas’s hands press Dean down onto the mattress on his stomach before he hears the sound of the bottle clicking open again.  Just as Dean is starting to think that he’s not sure he wants the first time to be like this, on his stomach, Cas’s voice breaks the silence, a broken growl.

“Roll over, Dean, please, I want to see you.  Need to look at you.”  No sooner has the request come than Dean flips onto his back, bending his knees and placing his feet flat on the bed.  His eyes unerringly find Cas just in time to watch him slicking up his swollen cock, and Dean feels his ass clench in pleasurably nervous anticipation.  He lifts his arms, welcoming the angel, and Cas comes, walking forward on the bed on his knees until he reaches Dean.  He leans over, one hand bracing himself a few inches above Dean as his other hand drops.  Dean can’t see, but he knows Cas must be guiding his own cock, and this suspicion is borne out when he feels the nudge of a blunt head at his asshole.  He takes a breath and deliberately relaxes his muscles as Cas presses himself forward slowly but steadily.  Dean’s eyes lock with the angel’s and they search one another’s faces as Cas penetrates him a little bit at a time.  It feels amazing despite or maybe because of the sharp burn as the muscles, unused to an intruder of such girth, nevertheless stretch to accommodate it.  It’s still not enough, though, and Dean wraps his legs around Cas, settling his heels against the angel’s ass and deliberately jerking it toward him.

Cas goes with his urging and the slow, careful penetration is cut off when a single sharp jerk of Cas’s hips buries the remainder of him inside Dean to the hilt.

A keening sound breaks from Dean that is both acknowledgement of the burning pain and the hot, liquid pleasure that is beginning to overtake it.

Cas’s face is a mask of agony, twisted up with the force of will it is taking him not to move, to wait and let Dean adjust to his girth.  Dean is having none of it.  He forces the words out past gritted teeth.

“Cas…if you don’t fuck me right this second, I swear I will start calling your Dad’s name just before you come.”

A surprised laugh bursts from Cas at this threat, and he looks down at Dean, searching his face, once again seeking evidence that Dean is truly okay, that he really wants this.  It seems to Dean a little late (that ship has definitely already sailed, at this point) but he finds it endearing nevertheless.  At least, he would if he wasn’t so desperate to feel Cas moving inside him.  Thankfully, the angel must be satisfied with whatever he sees, because a second later he is drawing back, cock slipping almost all the way out of Dean before he presses back in.  It’s still gentle, it’s still a little slow, and Dean releases a growl of frustration.

Cas shakes his head, marveling at Dean’s wordless demand, and the next time he withdraws, Dean reaches down and grabs his hips, jerking them down to himself with a speed and ruthlessness that make it clear just exactly what he means when he tells the angel to fuck him.

Cas gets the message.  Determination settles onto his face, already broken open with pleasure and the intimacy of the moment.  His hips draw back again, and this time Dean doesn’t need to do any directing, because Cas starts fucking him in earnest, cock pistoning in and out of Dean with a speed and force that has him crying out with each drive forward.  The burn fades a little bit at a time, and Dean doesn’t mind it anyway, rocking his body in time with the thrusts.  He stares into Cas’s eyes, searches the face, memorizing for at least the thousandth time the firm, stubbled jawline, the arch of the brows, the high cheekbones.  His head lifts up, lips seeking the angel’s, and Cas gives him what he wants, his lips seizing Dean’s hungrily.

They kiss for long moment as Cas’s cock works into and out of him, and Dean is not expecting what happens when Cas shifts his angle ever-so-slightly, causing his cock to rub firmly along Dean’s prostate.

He lets out a wail into the angel’s mouth, and Cas groans at the sound, maintaining the new angle and giving no quarter on either force or speed.  This is good, because Dean might kill him if he did.  Instead, Dean can do nothing but let his hips fall a little further open, loosening his legs around the angel.

Cas breaks the kiss only to breathe hot words into Dean’s ear in that low gravelly tone that is pure sex in auditory form.  Dean’s eyes flutter closed, head tilting into the voice, into the filthy words.

“Can you come just like this Dean?  Come on my cock?  I think you can.  I think you’ve been waiting years for the chance to do just that.”

If you’d asked him before this, he would’ve said there was no way in hell he could come untouched, but now?  Now it’s as though those words have unlocked a door, and Cas’s voice has barely echoed into silence before Dean’s cock jerks hard.  His back arches into the angel and his cock pulses, painting stripes across both of their bellies as he wails his climax.  His ass clenches tightly around Cas as he comes, and that’s all it takes to compel the angel to follow him over the edge.  Dean feels the hot wetness fill him, and the sensation is strange and new but not unpleasant or disgusting, because it’s Cas.

Dean’s eyes are still closed, his chest heaving as his breath comes in rapid pants.  In a minute, he thinks, the mess across both of their stomachs will need to be dealt with, but for the moment Dean honestly wouldn’t mind staying just like this forever.

From time to time in the future, when he remembers, he will wish he could have done just that—remained in that moment of bliss, of blissful _ignorance,_ forever.  It’s probably his least distressing wish of the many he will have in the coming days.  Better, probably, than the times when he wishes Lucifer had simply killed him in the library, had hit him too hard accidentally and broken his neck.

He doesn’t know any of that now.  Doesn’t know that in forty-five minutes, he’s going to be crouched, shuddering, under a shower so hot it will leave his skin bright red and raw for hours.  Doesn’t know that when Sam gets back home tomorrow, he will find Dean unable or unwilling to speak.  Doesn’t know that it will be two weeks after that before he says a single word, and a lot longer than that before he tells Sam what happened (although Sam will come to suspect, accurately, long before he finally breaks). 

He knows none of this, just now.  Now, just for this moment, Dean is happy—is ecstatic.  Has never felt more fulfilled, more satiated, more _complete_ in his entire life.

When the chuckle breaks above him, he thinks for a second that Cas is just as happy as he is, and is venting it through silly, slightly inappropriate laughter. 

That only lasts a second.

The laughter—it’s all wrong.  It lacks the warmth, the richness of Cas’s laugh.  It is…pricklier, less gravelly.  And there is an edge to it that he has never heard from Cas.

That edge is mockery.  That edge is taunting.

Dean knows, even before he opens his eyes, what he is going to see above him, but he dares to hope that he’s wrong.

He isn’t.

His eyes fly open, and the face above him is split by a grin of such sharp cruelty that it slices Dean in half.

“You know,” Lucifer says cheerfully, “I figured you’d be a good lay, but I had no idea you’d be so _needy,_ kiddo.”

Oh, God.  Oh, no.  This is not possible.  This is absolutely not possible. 

Even when he realized that the laughter was all wrong, realized that he was hearing the Devil, the most he thought was that somehow, in the post-coital haze, Lucifer had managed to wrest control back from Cas.  But that?  That made it sound like—

“No,” Dean says, numbly, and it’s wildly inadequate, but it’s all he’s got.

Lucifer beams at him.  “Yes,” he tells Dean, who suddenly realizes that there is still a cock buried inside him.  He explodes into motion, hands shoving wildly at Lucifer’s shoulders.  Lucifer lets himself be pushed off, cock sliding out of Dean with a filthily wet noise that could’ve been sexy if it were Cas, but is just stomach-churning.

Dean scrambles backward on the bed until his back is plastered against the wall, and he only dimly registers the intense ache inside his ass, the one that will turn his stomach every time he moves until it finally fades away in three or four days.

“No,” he says again, desperate to be wrong about what he now suspects is true.

“Oh, yes,” Lucifer responds, stretching his back out and standing, swiping a hand through the mess on his belly and sticking one of his fingers in his mouth, humming thoughtfully, “Mmm, not bad, Deano.  As I was saying—you were a hell of a lay.  You know, I wasn’t going to bother with the charade, was just going to go ahead and take you if a little bit of bloodshed didn’t get Amara’s attention right away, but after I saw you with that porno?  I mean, could _you_ have resisted?”  His face splits with a grin again, laughter shaking him.  Dean is shaking too, but it is not with laughter.  “And, oh, Dean, I couldn’t have designed it better myself!  You didn’t just submit, you practically _begged_ for it!”

Dean’s face is numb, he can’t feel his mouth when it moves, when the broken question tumbles out.  “Wh— _why?”_

Lucifer chuckles, taking a step forward, and Dean tries to skitter backward, but is already against the wall.  Lucifer lifts his hands, as if soothing a hysterical animal with reassurances that he’s not going to touch, but oh God, he has already touched, has already taken, has already been _everywhere._

 “Isn’t it obvious, kiddo?  Same reason I told you when I first got here.  Amara sees you as hers.  If anything’ll get her attention even faster than somebody hurting you?  It’s somebody _having_ you…in the biblical sense, of course.  Now I’ve done both, and she won’t be able to resist coming to find me for a chat.”  Lucifer spreads his hands out in front of him, as though the reasoning is obvious, and Dean will surely agree that, of course, it makes perfect sense.

In a twisted way, it kind of does, and soon Dean will be furious with himself for not seeing it, for letting himself accept the charade, for wanting it to be true so badly that he believed it.

Now?  He can’t really feel anything at all, and he’s pretty sure that is a blessing.  He simply stares at Lucifer, shaking so hard that he can actually hear the bed vibrating against the wall.

Lucifer tsks at him, as though Dean is disappointing him.

“Is the melodrama really necessary, kiddo?  You enjoyed yourself, after all,” he swipes a fingertip through the streaks on his stomach again and lifts it up in demonstration.  Dean has no idea how, but he manages to get himself together just enough to hiss at the archangel.

“Get.  Out.”

Lucifer shakes his head in a mockery of sadness.  “And here I thought you’d want to spoon.  Sammy was always such a cuddler, afterward,” he is silent for only about five seconds, letting Dean process that, before he bursts into laughter, “I’m lying, of course.  Sammy favored the whole huddle in a corner and shake gig, too.”

Dean’s brain is moving slow, but it does manage to put together what Lucifer is saying, what he is implying.  He registers that Lucifer has just confirmed suspicions that Dean barely let himself consider, and would _never_ for an instant have even considered asking Sammy about.  He cannot think what to say, so he just grits his teeth and repeats himself, with greater venom.

_“Get.  The fuck.  Out.”_

Lucifer shrugs, strolling to the door of his room.  “If you say so, kiddo.”  Dean thinks for a second that’s going to be it, Lucifer is going to leave without a final biting quip, but of course he’s fooling himself.  The Devil loves the last word.

“I gotta say, even if my little plan doesn’t work—and I’m pretty sure it will—it was totally worth it, just to be the only man who’s been inside both Winchesters.  You know, I think I might get that sewn into a sampler.  Frame it on my wall.  Quite the accomplishment, no?”

That breaks Dean’s paralysis, and suddenly he is scrabbling for the blade under his pillow.  Lucifer must realize what he’s up to, but he seems unconcerned, just props one elbow against the door, apparently totally comfortable in his nudity.  “Awww, don’t feel too bad, Dean.  You’re a better lay than Sammy—but then again, he always did so much _struggling,_ so I suppose it’s not really a fair contest.  I never had him moaning and whimpering and begging for more.”

Dean makes a low sound that is hatred and revulsion and disgust and a thousand other things, and finally he gets his hands on the blade of his knife, slices his fingers on it before he closes them around the hilt, brandishes it before he thinks to wonder what the fuck he’s actually going to do with the thing.

Lucifer is, unsurprisingly, unintimidated.  “If it’s any comfort,” he says, smirking, and Dean suddenly knows that whatever he says is _not_ going to be comforting, that he desperately doesn’t want to hear it, “Castiel _was_ with us, in a sense.  He may not have been driving the bus, but he had a front row seat to the main event!  You wouldn’t believe the noise he was making, too.  Fought harder than you can imagine, till I told him if he didn’t sit back and watch like a good boy, I’d finish you once we were done.  Then he quieted right down.  Well, mostly.  Cried like a baby the whole time.  Matter of fact, he still is.”

Dean was right.  He hadn’t wanted to know. 

The knife clatters to the floor, out of Dean’s numb fingers before he even realizes he’s lost it.  He can feel tears start to gather in the corner of his own eyes, and tells himself firmly he will not, will not, will _not_ weep in front of Lucifer.

That promise doesn’t have time to be tested before Lucifer presses himself off the doorjamb and stretches again.  “Welp, kiddo, I’ll be taking my leave.  Places to go, people to see.  No rest for the wicked and all that.  But rest assured, I’ll be seeing you.  Til next time!”

Dean opens his mouth to give him some kind of brutal retort (even though he has no fucking clue what he would say) but it’s too late, Lucifer is gone.

Dean won’t know it for another hour, until he finally drags himself out of the shower and down to the library to avail himself of every drop of whiskey in the wet bar, but Lucifer took Cas's clothes with him when he went.

Mostly.

Neatly folded over the back of one of the long table’s chairs, a single rose poking jauntily out of the pocket, is a familiar trenchcoat.

He will hate himself for it forever, but after he burns the rose, Dean wraps the trenchcoat around himself.

That is how Sam will find him, late tomorrow night.  Naked but for a pair of sweatpants and a trenchcoat, skin burned shiny red and raw by the scalding shower, staring blankly into the smoldering fireplace, as if searching it for answers.

He never finds any.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: This fic depicts a sexual encounter with extremely dubious consent or, rightfully, lack of consent due to identity issues. Dean consents to sex with Cas. He does not consent to sex with Lucifer. There are also references (reasonably non-graphic) to nonconsensual Lucifer/Sam in the cage. 
> 
> TITLE NOTE: The title of this piece is from an Indigo Girls song called "Prince of Darkness" The verse the title is taken from is as follows:
> 
> "Maybe there's no haven in this world for tender age  
> My heart beat like the wings of wild birds in a cage  
> My greatest hope my greatest cause to grieve  
> And my heart flew from its cage and it bled upon my sleeve  
> Oh, the cries of passion were like wounds that needed healing  
> I couldn't hear them for the thunder  
> I was half the naked distance between hell and heaven's ceiling  
> And he almost pulled me under."
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:
> 
> I'm...I don't even know what to say. I kind of despise this fic. It demanded to be written. The idea popped up in my head and wouldn't quit buzzing around in that annoying way gnats do, when they just keep coming back no matter how often you wave them away. I couldn't finish the chapter of Snowbound I was working on, because this just wouldn't leave me alone. The only way to make it go away was to write it. So I did.
> 
> While I think that writing-wise, it is some of my better work, it's also the worst thing I have ever written. Now that I've gotten it out of my system, hopefully I can proceed to never look at it again.
> 
> If you got this far...I'm sorry. I had to. I'm not proud.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://kreweofimp.tumblr.com/) and tell me how much you hate me for this! (no seriously, I'm new, I need followers. And I'm accepting prompts!)


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